Dying for Justice (18 page)

Jackson logged the evidence into the computer system, then climbed the stairs, hoping Parker was still in the building. He caught her in her office as she pulled on her coat.

“I’m not staying late, Jackson. I have a date.”

“I’m glad to hear that.” He set the evidence on her desk. “I wanted you to know we had two critical pieces from the shooting today. The killer dropped this ski mask and we’re hoping to get DNA. We’ll have a sample for comparison soon. Meanwhile, run it against CODIS.” Jackson wondered if they would be able to get a subpoena for Bekker’s DNA. A judge would be as skeptical as he was about the plausibility of the jailed cop’s involvement. “I’d like to make this shell casing a priority too.”

“Talk to Joe about it.” Parker didn’t touch the evidence bags. “Would you put those in a downstairs locker, please?” She grabbed her purse and waited for him to make a move.

Jackson sensed she was tired and annoyed with him. “I’m sorry. I’ll follow protocol. Have a good evening.” He smiled, picked up the evidence, and walked out.

Downstairs, he went into the little room where he had used the computer and shoved the bags into a locker, which would not open again until it had been released from the other side. The back end of the lockers opened into a room in the crime lab, where a technician would retrieve the evidence and reset the lock. The system, which was new with the building, had been designed to allow officers to drop off evidence night and day and to keep money and drugs from disappearing.

As Jackson left the building, he thought about the hundred-dollar bill that had vanished from his parents’ case file. It wasn’t the disappearance that bothered him; it was the presence of the money under his mother’s body. What was it doing there? Had his mother tried to pay Durkin off with cash? If so, why had he shot her? Maybe his father had gone for his gun and the exchange went sour.

Jackson drove to the department and logged into his computer. While he waited for Evans to call about the Explorer’s owner, he decided to spend a few minutes on his own investigation. He opened the online yellow pages and found KSL Construction. As late as it was, he expected to get an answering machine and he did. He told the business a return call was urgent. On a whim, he called Lucky Numbers, the strip bar where Derrick had met Durkin, and asked to speak to the manager.

The voice of an older man came on the phone. “This is the manager. Who are you and what do you want?”

“Detective Jackson, Eugene Police. I’m looking for Ray Durkin. Have you seen him?”

“Not in six years. Why?”

“I need some peace of mind and I think Durkin is the key.”

Chapter 22

Wednesday, September 8, 7:32 p.m.

Evans drove away from the crime scene, then stopped on the corner to use the car’s GPS to find the address. Clark Street started near the base of Skinner’s Butte and ran in segments parallel to West 1st Avenue. She thought the 324 address had to be near Lawrence or Lincoln. Counting squares on the map, she figured the Explorer’s owner lived nine blocks from the jail, about half a mile. A healthy person could walk the distance in ten minutes or run it in five. She pulled out into the street and headed downtown, reminding herself to keep an open mind. On the way, she called dispatch and asked for Joel Greer’s phone number.

The sun was nearly at the horizon when Evans entered the old neighborhood nestled between the railroad tracks and the river. Without access to the water, the properties had lost value over the years, and many had been beaten down by renters. Evans turned right on 1st Avenue, and the scent of cooked oats drifted in her open window. She drove past a factory and turned left on Washington, then right on Clark.

She parked in front of the small yellow house and took a moment to prepare herself. It was possible Greer was the killer, but Jackson didn’t believe it or he wouldn’t have sent her here alone. She pushed her jacket back and put her hand on her weapon anyway.

As she strode up the cracked sidewalk, she wondered if Lammers would make her take a leave of absence after today’s shooting. Evans hoped not. No lights were on in the house and she started to think she was wasting her time. After a few knocks and no response, she called Greer on her cell phone. In a stern voice, she left a message. “This is Detective Evans. Your vehicle was used in a homicide and there is a warrant for your arrest. To clear yourself, call me immediately when you get this message, no matter what time.” She recited her number and hung up.

Evans considered walking over to the jail to see how long it would take, but she didn’t want to leave her car parked in the neighborhood. What she really wanted was to arrest Bekker. Lammers had said they could if he made bail. She hit speed dial #1 and waited for Jackson to pick up.

“What’s the update?” He sounded tired.

“Greer, the SUV’s owner, lives at 324 Clark, which is near Washington and the base of Skinner’s Butte. It’s about nine blocks from the jail, or a brisk ten-minute walk. Greer’s not home so I haven’t heard his story yet.”

“Let’s meet at the department. We’ll order some food and brainstorm.”

“Let’s pick up Bekker first. Even if he’s not the actual shooter, I still think he’s involved. Either way, the bastard shouldn’t be walking around free.”

“I think it’s premature, Evans.”

“I’m doing it with or without you. He lives at 1577 Glenn Ellen Drive.” She clicked off before Jackson could argue.

A surge of energy pumped through her torso as Evans parked across from Bekker’s house. Lights were on and a red Ford truck sat in the driveway. The bastard was in there, ripe for the plucking. It killed her to wait, but she knew Jackson was coming, so she stayed in the car and tried to keep calm.

She’d seen Bekker’s address the first time she looked him up in the database, but hadn’t realized how close he lived to her. It made her glad she had heavy-duty locks on her house. She’d come to believe every neighborhood had at least one dangerous resident. People who didn’t understand that or take precautions were idiots. It made law enforcement’s job even harder.

Jackson pulled in behind a few minutes later, and Evans shoved open her car door, adrenaline pumping. The sun had set and she couldn’t see her partner’s expression until he moved in next to her.

Jackson’s jaw was tight and his mouth unsmiling. “I called for patrol backup in case he resists,” he said through clenched teeth.

Evans hated that he was angry with her. “This is the right thing to do. Don’t forget his sexual coercion victims. If he’s free on bail, he’s free to intimidate them into retracting their stories.”

“I have bad feeling about this.”

“Do you have your Taser?”

“Yes. Let’s go.”

They moved past the truck in the driveway, guns drawn. Jackson pounded on the door and it opened moments later. A boy of about fourteen smiled at them. He wore shorts and a Batman t-shirt and had the round face and innocent eyes of someone with Down syndrome. Evans cursed under her breath and let Jackson take the lead.

“We’re looking for Gary Bekker. Is he here?”

The young man turned and yelled, “Dad. It’s for you.”

Bekker came to the door, looking haggard. His face was unshaved and the bags under his eyes were gray. He spoke softly to the boy, telling him to go back to the living room. When his son was out of earshot, Bekker said, “What do you want now?”

“We need you to come in for questioning.”

“We’ve been through this, remember?”

“We have a new crime,” Jackson said. “Either come with us voluntarily or we’ll have to arrest you.”

“What crime?”

“We’ll talk when we get to the department.”

“I can’t just leave my son. Can’t this wait until tomorrow when he’s in school?”

“Sorry. We’ll give you ten minutes to make arrangements. If you can’t find someone, we’ll call Child Services.”

“Fuck that!” Spit flew from Bekker’s mouth. “Cody is already traumatized because I didn’t come last night. I will not let him enter the fucking foster system.”

“Then start making calls.” Jackson stayed firm and Evans admired him even more. She felt bad for the boy and hoped he had a backup caregiver, because his father might not come home for twenty years.

“Come on, Jackson,” Bekker pleaded. “You’ve got a kid and you know what it’s like. Have a heart.”

“Think long term, Bekker. We’ll come in while you make calls.”

Bekker’s shoulders slumped and Evans could tell he was done resisting. She holstered her weapon and her pulse slowed.

* * *

Jackson and Evans stood in the living room while Bekker made a call. The boy was engrossed in a crime show on TV. Bekker’s call went well. Jackson could tell by the tone of his voice and the look of relief on his face. The sergeant came into the living room, muted the TV, and kneeled next to his son.

“Cody, Mrs. Marshall is coming to take you home with her, and you’ll be there for a while. Daddy has to go to work. It’s a big job and I may not be home for a few days.”

“You’re going to sleep at work?”

“Yes. For a day or so. I’ll call you if I can.”

The boy put his arms around Bekker’s neck and said, “I hate it when you’re gone.”

“Me too, son. I’ll go pack some things for you.”

Jackson wished he were anywhere else. He hated arresting people with kids.

Bekker got up and turned to Jackson. “I need to make a few more calls.”

Jackson nodded and followed Bekker into the boy’s room. He didn’t really believe it was necessary to shadow him, but if Bekker went out a bedroom window while he stood in the living room, he would kick himself for days.

Bekker loaded a backpack with a change of clothes and called the boy’s school to leave a message. Bekker conducted a second conversation that Jackson couldn’t follow. He told himself the call was personal and not to worry about it.

After ten minutes, they were back in the living room. Bekker sat on the couch next to his son and Jackson stood next to Evans, who seemed to be struggling to keep her impassive cop face on.

For twenty minutes, they waited, watching Bekker and his son watch TV. It was a long uncomfortable stretch, but Jackson had done even stranger things as a patrol cop. Once he’d changed a baby’s diaper while the mother took a shower and washed food out of her hair. Her husband had thrown dinner plates at her and another officer had taken the offender to jail. Jackson had offered to drive the woman to her mother’s home, but she’d wanted to clean up first.

Mrs. Marshall, a heavy-set older woman with a sweet voice, finally arrived and Cody left with her. Jackson cuffed Bekker, against his protests, and put him in the back of his car. Evans followed them to the department. Jackson was irritated with her for pushing him to pick up Bekker, but he was also mad at himself for hesitating. The issue for him was that Bekker was not his priority. The patrol sergeant was not a suspect in his parents’ murders, and Jackson didn’t believe Bekker had shot his ex-wife either. Yet Evans was right that Bekker was a threat to the women he’d victimized, and it was a relief to have in him custody again. Disabled son or not. Damn, that had been uncomfortable.

He asked Evans to order Chinese food while he escorted their suspect to the interrogation room. It was nearly nine o’clock and raw hunger made him irritable as hell. He left Bekker uncuffed with a glass of water, then trudged to the conference room. His legs ached with exhaustion and his surgery scar felt inflamed, yet he still had hours of work ahead. He bought two diet Pepsis from the vending machine in the break room on the way.

In the conference room, Evans had a small prescription bottle in her hand. “Want half a Provigil?”

“What exactly is it again?”

“It was originally developed to keep jet pilots awake on long flights. It’s also commonly prescribed for people with narcolepsy to keep them awake. I only take it when we’re working these late night cases.”

Evans’ energy made Jackson feel old, even when she didn’t have pharmaceutical help. “Sure.”

She broke an oblong tablet in half and they swallowed the Provigil with their sodas.

“I’ve been thinking,” Jackson said. “If Bekker has an accomplice, then his accomplice is also participating in the sex crimes. Why else would he be willing to kill Gina Stahl?”

“Of course.” Evans slapped her folder. “We have to talk to his victims again. Do you think his accomplice is another cop?”

“Most likely. But we have to stay open to the possibility that Bekker has never tried to kill his ex-wife and another suspect is still out there.”

Evans made a face. “I don’t know who it would be. Gina still has boxes of paperwork at her parents’ house that I haven’t gone through yet. After we’ve questioned Bekker, I’ll go pick up the boxes and bring them here for us to go through.”

Jackson braced himself for a long night of tedium. He remembered the stacks of his mother’s letters that he hadn’t gone through yet either. He had no idea when he would get back to them.

His partner’s cell phone rang and she snatched it from the table. “Detective Evans.” After a moment, she set down the phone and put it on speaker. “Thanks for getting back to me, Joel. I need to ask a few questions.”

The voice from the cell was scratchy but audible. “I’m on a break at work so I only have a few minutes.”

“This is important. Your boss will understand. Where were you today at 5:17 p.m.?” Evans leaned toward the phone as she spoke. Jackson thought this speakerphone interrogation was yet another strange moment in his law enforcement career.

“I was right here at work, where I am now.”

“Where do you work and what is your shift?”

“I work six to six at Ridgeline Pipe, twelve-hour graveyard shifts.”

“Did you loan your Ford Explorer to someone?”

“No. I sold it today.”

“What time did that happen and who did you sell it to?”

“I don’t know his name. He showed up around noon and gave me five hundred in cash. I gave him the title and that was it.”

“Did he call first?”

“No. I didn’t have the Explorer advertised. I just parked it on the street with a For Sale sign.”

Jackson was impressed with Evans’ line of questioning.

“Describe the guy.”

“He was older, maybe in his fifties, but in good shape.”

“Be specific. I want eye color, skin color, hair color, the shape of his face.” Evans sounded annoyed.

“I didn’t see much. He wore a baseball cap and sunglasses. But he was definitely white, and what little I saw of his hair looked blond or gray.”

Jackson heard traffic noises in the background. “Where are you right now? I thought you said you were at work.”

“I’m in the parking lot. The break room is too noisy.”

Evans picked back up. “What else can you tell us? Did the guy sound crude or educated? Did he have an accent?”

“He seemed smart and smooth, but the whole thing happened in a few minutes. He started the Explorer to make sure it ran, gave me the cash, and went on his way.”

Jackson asked, “He drove away in the Explorer?”

“Yes. He came on a bike. After he bought the Ford, he put the bike in the back and drove off.”

“We need you to come into the department tomorrow and work with our sketch artist to create a picture of this guy.”

They heard a loud buzzer in the background. “Okay,” Joel said. “But I need to get back to work now.”

Evans warned, “Be here early in the morning so we don’t have to come find you.”

Jackson loved it when she got into her tough cop mode.

“I will.” Joel hung up.

“White guy in his fifties with blond hair. Sounds like Bekker.” Evans jumped up and started to pace. “Yet it can’t be, because Bekker was still in jail at noon.”

“He either has an accomplice or we need to start over.”

“Goddamn it.” Evans drummed her fingers. “What if his accomplice bought the Explorer, then picked up Bekker at the jail? They could have driven to the Stahls together in plenty of time.”

“Did you see someone else in the vehicle?”

“No, but he could have been lying down in the back seat.”

“They would have needed two bikes to get away.”

“Maybe one of them was dropped off at another vehicle for the getaway.”

“It’s possible.” Jackson wasn’t buying it. “But it would take some planning and Bekker was in jail.”

“This is pretty fucked up.”

In the silence, someone knocked on the door and the desk officer stepped in. “This smells incredibly good. What did you guys order?”

“Mongolian Beef and egg rolls.”

Jackson noticed Evans ordered the same thing Kera always did. It made him smile.

“What?” she asked.

“Nothing. Let’s eat, then we’ll go see if we can trick Bekker into talking about his accomplice.”

Bekker’s interrogation proved to be a waste of time. If he responded at all, he simply said “yes,” “no,” or “I don’t know.” After twenty minutes, he refused to speak again.